Chapter Text
Over the course of his near twenty-three years, Kiyoomi has done plenty of things that scare him. Starting volleyball was the first—knowing that he had to willingly put himself into harm’s way didn’t seem too appealing at first, nor did the thought of having to be in close proximity to sweaty bodies. Accepting his attraction to men came next. It was hard to hide that when he was surrounded by the aforementioned sweaty boys constantly, especially when he started getting older and the boys started to actually grow up.
In the face of being disowned, he started to support himself, even though he near stressed himself to death going over his finances those first few months. Even when he confronted a life independent of his parents, he graduated with an MVP title and an honors degree.
He moved to an entirely different city and moved in with what he knew was a walking disaster and barely flinched. Scariest of all, he admitted to having feelings for the world’s most annoying, beautiful, conceited, thoughtful man on the planet.
The point is, Kiyoomi is not afraid to charge forward into things that terrify him. So it escapes him as to why he’s been staring at an empty suitcase for the past twenty minutes paralyzed by fear. All he has to do is pack warm clothes to wear for a week, all of the travel essentials that will let him keep up his high-maintenance lifestyle. Yet he remains staring at the empty suitcase before him, unable to do anything but be overcome by a wave of anxiety.
Yes, Kiyoomi has done things that have scared him more times than he can count. He has never, however, had to meet his partner’s parents. Or their whole family. Or stay with them for an entire week. But that alone wasn’t enough to have him frozen in place—a veritable statue in his own bedroom. It is the fact that he actually cares about what Atsumu’s family thinks of him. For the very first time in his life, he actually cares about the impression he’s about to make.
Which explains why, for a solid twenty minutes and then some, he thinks, rethinks, overthinks the new thoughts, and instead does nothing but stare into his empty suitcase.
It’s all going swimmingly until he hears Hinata’s voice calling from the living room.
“Omi-san, Tsumu-san is here!”
Then he’s staring at the suitcase with his brain screaming shit shit shit shit shit shit shit on a loop. Still, Kiyoomi can’t tear his eyes away from the empty suitcase and his feet still remain rooted to the floor. Not even Atsumu’s familiar footfalls coming toward the door can pull him out of his reverie.
“Hey babe,” brash and loud as ever, Atsumu hardly waits for the door to be open before he speaks, “got ya that coffee ya like so much in the fridge for tomorrow mornin’. Ya finished pack-“ Atsumu stops in the doorway. There’s no way that Kiyoomi can look at him knowing that he’s taking in the empty suitcase and the statuesque figure of his boyfriend.
The tension in the room ratchets up to ten before Atsumu even acknowledges the obvious. “It’s empty.”
The hint of fear in Atsumu’s voice makes Kiyoomi remember how to speak, “I’m trying, I promise.”
Kiyoomi’s last wish is to make Atsumu think he doesn’t want to go or that he’s putting it off because it doesn’t seem like a good idea.
“Not sure what to pack or?” His voice still takes on a nervous cadence, though it sounds warmer than his previous observation. “I’m pretty sure it’s already snowin’ out there so ya might wanna grab some warm clothes. But ya don’t need anythin’ real formal or anythin’ like that. Ya know my family ain’t like yers.”
In normal circumstances, Kiyoomi would blow off the obvious advice with a snide remark and a smile, the pair would laugh it off and start packing. But this Kiyoomi is anxious and feels trapped, so that is not what he does. Instead, he snaps.
“I know how to pack, Miya.”
“Woah,” the lightheartedness seeps out of him with the revival of the family name. “The hell is goin’ on here, Omi?”
Like a caged animal fighting against its bars, Kiyoomi lashes out again, “What does it look like?”
“If I’m honest, like yer regrettin’ ever agreein’ to come in the first place. Like ya’d rather be doin’ anythin’ else.”
“That’s not,” his own frustrated groan interrupts his speech before he continues, “that’s not true.”
Finally, Atsumu moves into the room properly, shutting the door behind him. Kiyoomi feels his warmth first, then the gentle hand on the side of his face guiding him to look Atsumu in the eye. He expects to see hurt, irritation, a whole other host of feelings that will remind Kiyoomi that he’s being a terrible boyfriend. But instead, he sees concern.
“Then tell me what’s goin’ on.”
There are some things that are still difficult for Kiyoomi, raw vulnerability key among them. But he tries—for Atsumu he’ll try anything.
“I’ve never done this before,” he watches those warm honey eyes flit between his own, cataloging every minor twitch and movement. For once it doesn’t feel so terrible to be read like a book. “Any of it.”
It’s not a grand reveal of his anxieties, but it’s enough. Enough to help Atsumu see a clearer picture of what’s going on.
Armed with a better understanding, Atsumu’s other arm reaches for Kiyoomi’s hip, turning Kiyoomi’s full-body towards his own. With two points of contact grounding him back down, Kiyoomi drapes his arms around Atsumu’s neck. Atsumu still looks at him like he isn’t doing anything wrong, that it’s okay to snap and freak out about the unknown. Though he feels more like a child seeking comfort from their mother, Kiyoomi still basks in the warmth of Atsumu, the surety of his gaze.
“Then we’ll do it together. All of it.”
While the words aren’t an instant fix—the anxiety still crawls around under his skin—they are a balm to the frayed edges of his nerves.
“Together, then,” Kiyoomi feels Atsumu’s hand squeeze on his hip. “I need help picking out sweaters.”
“Ya gonna bring that cardigan combo too? It makes ya look soft—think Ma’ll like it.”
Kiyoomi raises a brow as he finally breaks from his stance to rifle through his closet. “Oh, you think your mom will like it? Not that it makes me—what did you say that one time?”
The response comes out in unison.
“Irresistible like that teacher ya can’t get with.”
“Irresistible like that teacher you can’t get with—right.” The smile between them feels more natural, the tension slipping out of the air. “I’ll make sure to bring it, for your mother of course.”
“Heaven sent, that’s what ya are.”
“I think we both know I crawled out of the pits of hell.” Atsumu’s laugh brings a smile to Kiyoomi’s lips, the kind he likes to hide, and everything feels alright. They spend the next twenty minutes parsing through drawers and the rack, Kiyoomi holding up hangers against his chest and looking to Atsumu for a yes or no. Just to spite him, Kiyoomi tosses a couple of the no’s to the suitcase with a smile. Having Atsumu there, running through the process together, eases the crawling under his skin even more. But Kiyoomi is finding more and more lately that Atsumu has that effect. His presence makes Kiyoomi feel nurtured in the most intangible of ways—cradles a new piece of him in warmth and care without ever asking for something in return. It almost feels selfish to let those parts of him be held like that.
Still, Kiyoomi lets it happen—feels the way Atsumu’s care and attention blanket him. It blankets over him when they fold each article of clothing, side by side, Kiyoomi criticizing the way Atsumu folds and laughing when he intentionally folds it more into a ball than anything else in retaliation. It covers him when Atsumu knows exactly where to find each little toiletry. It’s nearly suffocating when Kiyoomi returns from grabbing his new travel toothbrush to find Atsumu organizing the aforementioned toiletries just as he likes them. Each moment feels immense in their tiny show of affection—in a way Kiyoomi cannot begin to fathom.
When the clothes are all tidied away, the toiletries all packed, Kiyoomi finally lets on to what’s racketing around his brain.
Curled up in his chair with Atsumu on the couch beside him and Hinata out to grab them all dinner, Atsumu regales Kiyoomi in stories about his childhood. From his escapades with Osamu to his own dramatic antics, he has Kiyoomi rolling his eyes and stifling laughs. Each hidden smile and aborted laugh only has Atsumu trying harder to get a genuine laugh out of Kiyoomi. The attempts stop short, though, when Kiyoomi poses one, simple little question.
“Your family’s used to people who are rude, then?” Of course, there’s a playful edge to it—Kiyoomi did genuinely mean to poke fun at Atsumu for being generally brash and uncouth.
Kiyoomi should have known that Atsumu would connect the dots. Rude is a word all too often associated with Kiyoomi, the word choice becoming a direct tie back to him. But Atsumu is also full of small mercies. So, when his face softens, he doesn’t need to point out that he’s figured out what got Kiyoomi so worked up.
“Omi,” his tone firmer and more serious than he had been while telling stories, “how d’ya think Samu and I ended up like this?”
“Your bad influence.”
“Well, I had to pick it up from somewhere!” Atsumu tampers a smile when he squawks. “My Ma is ten times worse than me.”
The deviating life of a brow is all he needs to do to call Atsumu out. “I hardly believe you.”
There’s the jangling of keys in a lock, the signal of dinner’s arrival along with its overzealous bearer. While he’s distracted by the door, Atsumu grabs hold of Kiyoomi’s hand. Brows tugging in confusion, Atsumu just smiles—that soothing, soft little thing that always makes Kiyoomi feel safe.
“Yer gonna fit right in, Omi.”
Their night passes as usual after that, Atsumu and Hinata are brilliantly loud and jeer at the terrible action move they select for the night’s entertainment. Kiyoomi cleans up the dishes with Atsumu at his side and Hinata making conversation from their living room then they chat for a little while longer before going about their night routines. As always, Atsumu sits on the lid of the toilet, poking fun at Kiyoomi as he does his drawn-out night-time skin routine. Still, he asks Kiyoomi to do a mini version on him when he finishes, which Kiyoomi can never refuse.
Then it’s early morning and Kiyoomi is being brought to consciousness with the strong scent of coffee and a warm hand propping him up. A grumbly good morning is muffled into his cheek as Atsumu kisses him awake before pushing the mug of coffee into Kiyoomi’s hands. Getting ready is a haze of fabric and shuffling and Atsumu’s gentle hands and lips as they check, double-check, and triple-check they have everything in order. As promised, Atsumu presses Kiyoomi’s favorite canned coffee into his hand as they make their way for the station—the train ride will be long, Atsumu warned, with a substantial car ride afterward.
The train ride feels like a blur, the scenery passes so quickly Kiyoomi can hardly make any of it out and people seem to get off more than on as they make their way out of the city. Throughout each leg, though, Atsumu nudges Kiyoomi to show him little glimpses of humanity—a teenager drifting to sleep across from them likely on their way to school, a mother’s eyes sparkling with wonder at the young boy in her arms while they chat, an older man humming to himself while reading the paper. Each little glimpse makes Kiyoomi look to Atsumu for a brief moment, a content smile and relaxed brow always making itself at home on his face when Kiyoomi checks. The relaxation soothes the rising anxiety in Kiyoomi, enough that he is able to put a stopper on the rising heart rate and racing thoughts.
That only lasts until Atsumu is searching for the truck his father left at the station that morning, the roaring engine of the beat-up hand-me-down vehicle making Kiyoomi start. He grows eerily quiet in the ride to the Miya home. Atsumu points at different areas and stores, explaining his youth and former haunts to the brick wall beside him. If he notices, Atsumu doesn’t say anything, just continues his rambling all the way through the drive up to his parents’ home. The only lull comes when he shoulders his own bag and lugs Kiyoomi’s suitcase behind him up to the door.
Pushing through the doors makes Kiyoomi’s anxiety skyrocket. Walking into unfamiliar territory with absolutely no preparation is probably his worst nightmare next to some life altering illness. The only solace he can find is that Atsumu is beside him, doing this along with him. As they toe their shoes off, Atsumu makes their presence known making Kiyoomi’s brain go fuzzy.
“Ma!” his call rings loud in Kiyoomi’s ears, the only thing keeping his brain in his skull when he wants nothing more than to detach and float away into the clouds. Her responding call comes from somewhere further in the house, Atsumu’s hand reaching for Kiyoomi’s so he can lead him to her.
Closing the distance between them and his mother only adds to the growing nerves within him—each step a brick building up the wall of his anxieties. With a feeling so overwhelming, he becomes a ragdoll in Atsumu’s grip, loose and pliable.
“Are ya already preppin’ dinner? ’S kinda early for all that.”
The question comes as they arrive at the kitchen, the Miya matriarch seated in a chair beside the counter a knife and sharpener in hand. Despite the weapon in hand, she beams up at her son. And just like that the wall tumbles down—the sight of the small woman curled unto a seat, knife in one hand, long sharpener in the other. That warm grin juxtaposing the grim glint of the knife so starkly that a laugh bubbles up in Kiyoomi’s chest. It’s absurd and strangely welcoming even as she starts to point the knife at her son.
“I ain’t gon’ be told by my child when’s too early for somethin’, now, but I ain’t preppin’ just yet. Was waitin’ on ya to start, actually, but ya know yer brother’ll be all upset with me if I ain’t got these knives in tip-top shape.”
Atsumu’s frustration at the situation only makes Kiyoomi have to tamper another laugh, “Ma, are ya serious right now?”
Oblivious to the absurd picture she’s painting, her brows shoot up, “What?” When her eyes flit to Kiyoomi for a moment, the moment clicks, eyes growing wide. “Oh baby, I am so sorry, I swear it ain’t what it looks like, I ain’t mean to freak ya out or nu’n,” she puts the knife and its sharpener aside when she looks to Atsumu with pleading eyes more killer than Atsumu’s own. “Ya believe me don’t ya, honey? I swear-“
“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi’s voice is tinged with that unreleased laughter, earning a relieved smile from his mother. “Really, I didn’t think anything of it.” It’s only the truth because Kiyoomi can’t really think about anything right now except what to do with his hands and whether he should smile back and how do people make themselves seem normal and approachable or otherwise likable? Even in the absence of that overwhelming wall of nerves, he doesn’t really know how to act.
“Ain’t ya just an angel,” and Kiyoomi can certainly tell where Atsumu got his ability to get someone wrapped around his finger. Those eyes, just as warm and bright as Atsumu’s, dance when she looks at Kiyoomi, her smile so welcoming and cozy that Kiyoomi loses track of the racing thoughts. “I feel so rude, ain’t even introduced myself. Miya Izumi, but most of the people the boys bring ‘round just call me Mama Miya or just Izumi. No need for flair or anythin’. An’ I know yer Sakusa Kiyoomi—Omi to this one.” Her eyes darken as she looks at her son. “Which I oughta beat—I cain’t believe ya made me grovel like that. My own son, in my own house.”
Atsumu rolls his eyes, squeezing the hand entwined with Kiyoomi’s before untangling it to gesture wildly, “Ma, ya have the whole knife set out. It’s terrifyin’.”
“Oh, so ya want me to work with dull knives, saw my hands off? Yer rotten,” her smile betrays her angered tone.
“Quit bullyin’ me in front of my boyfriend.”
“No can-do baby,” she holds her arms out for a hug, “‘s my right as yer mama. Now git over here an’ gimme a hug before I kick ya out.”
Even if Atsumu acts like it’s the biggest pain in the world, he so clearly melts into her embrace. Kiyoomi knows he’ll be using it as ammunition for the nights they tease each other ceaselessly—the big, bad Miya Atsumu turns so soft in the face of tenderness. Towering nearly a foot over her means nothing when it’s his mother’s arms that rub his back before pulling away to examine his face.
“Ya ain’t eatin’ enough out there, Tsumu!” She pinches and pulls at his skin with one hand, the other deftly gripping his chin so she can tilt his head where she likes. “Ya got bags under yer eyes, look pale.”
He struggles against her grip, the subtle twitches making Kiyoomi suppress another grin, “I’m eatin’ just fine, Ma! It’s winter so of course, I’m gettin’ paler. ‘Sides, I brought Omi here so ya’d badger him about eatin’, not me.”
That earns Kiyoomi her discerning eye and Atsumu Kiyoomi’s own affectionate glare, “Ya ain’t wrong, Tsums. Boy’s gotta eat. Samu ain’t gonna hear the end of it from me, I’ll tell ya what—he’s supposed to be lookin’ out for ya for me. Instead? I got two boys barely eatin’ enough. Yer athletes—Kiyoomi, c’mere, honey. Is that fine? Callin’ ya Kiyoomi?” When Kiyoomi nods, Izumi softens just a little, “C’mere.”
In order to really get a good look at him, she steps up onto her chair, towering over him just a little. She doesn’t touch him, more so guides him around with some space between her hands and his face and little sounds. Atsumu must have mentioned the touching thing—the thought making him flit his eyes to his boyfriend for just a second. He looks too proud of the success in distracting his mother for Kiyoomi’s liking, even if there’s a touch of softness in those eyes.
“Now there ain’t near enough meat on these bones! Tsumu, ya been starvin’ him?” Before Atsumu can even interject, his mom is pushing on. “Kiyoomi, now ya just tell me if he ain’t takin’ care of ya. I raised him better than that, so he’ll be answerin’ to me if he goes an’ screws up.”
“Of course, Izumi,” the use of her name makes her nose scrunch up in an adorably fond way—reminiscent of the way Atsumu looks at Uni when she’s done something particularly adorable.
Giving Kiyoomi one more look over, Izumi shakes her head, “I don’t know why yer settlin’ with my Tsumu here.” She winks at Kiyoomi as Atsumu throws an indignant “hey” at her.
“He’s the only one willing to give me the time of day, I suppose,” he gives her a small smile in turn, her own smile growing even wider as he reaches a hand out to help her off the chair.
“Ya know that’s how I ended up married to their father.”
“Then it must happen to the best of us.”
Firmly on the ground, she squeezes his hand before releasing it and beaming at him, “Yer one helluva charmer, huh?”
“Well, he had to hook me somehow,” Atsumu bumps his hip against Kiyoomi’s when he offers the reply in lieu of Kiyoomi.
“Y’ain’t hard to please, Tsumu. A pretty face will get ya all wrapped up in nonsense.”
Atsumu’s face crumples in horror at his mother’s frankness, “In front of him, Ma? Yer killin’ me.”
“Well don’t go dyin’ before we prep dinner. I need yer help with some of this ‘cause Samu said he ain’t comin’ in until later. Has somethin’ goin’ on with the shop he says an' yer dad’ll be hungry when he gets home. Go put y’all’s stuff away then git back in here.”
Atsumu waves his hand as if that was obviously their next step and yanks Kiyoomi back to the hall with their bags. In their journey, Kiyoomi gets to see more of Atsumu’s childhood home, the walls littered with pictures of the boys as they grew—silly pictures of the twins with their faces covered in paint, sentimental pictures of mother or father and sons laughing or a gaggle of teenage boys taunting one another seemingly captured in secret, each photo reminiscent of the wall in Atsumu’s bedroom. Among these are photos of the whole family, each featuring beaming smiles and love so palpable that it makes Kiyoomi stop and linger. Seeing the images mixed with Atsumu’s simply knowing where to go makes something bloom inside of Kiyoomi’s gut—soft and molten. Atsumu’s familiarity with the space mixing with the loving nature of the home alights a softer part of Kiyoomi.
Kiyoomi is so wrapped up in the softness that he doesn’t see that it’s barbed—something making that softer part of him dangerous to look at.
Acting on that soft part of him would be heinous so instead, Kiyoomi makes fun of the awkward teenage phase photos plastered along the walls and points out how much cuter Osamu was as a baby. Each comment about Osamu earns him a squawk and gentle shove from Atsumu.
“I see you picked up the sentimentality from someone,” Kiyoomi comments as they unpack their suitcases.
“Ah,” with his feet tucked under him while he puts clothes into drawers, Atsumu almost looks innocent, “yeah, that’s Pa. He’s big on makin’ sure to preserve memories an’ all that—makes for good décor, huh?”
That molten center in his stomach makes a stupid smile spread across his face, “Mhm. Perfect material for making fun of you.”
A bundle of fabric smacks the side of his head, and he looks up to a wide-eyed Atsumu fluttering his lashes as if he hadn’t hurled a shirt at Kiyoomi’s face, “How’d that get over there? Mind handin’ that back to me, babe?”
“You’re the worst,” Kiyoomi lobs the shirt back.
“That’s why I always act like I’m the best.”
Atsumu’s smile is all smug ego, and it makes Kiyoomi want to kick him, something he tries and fails to do—Atsumu instead catches his leg and tugs Kiyoomi closer.
“Careful there, Omi,” he leans so he can hover just over Kiyoomi, “hate for ya to get hurt.”
It’s a crime how smooth his absolute buffoon of a boyfriend can be. “Ah, and you’re the world’s best protector, huh?”
“Sure am,” Atsumu smiles before kissing him, sweet, lingering, and tender. “C’mon, before Ma-“
“Atsumu,” his mother’s call rings even through the wood of the walls. “Hurry it up in there—ya can’t get away with neckin’ all night, yer gonna hafta help yer poor Ma at some point.”
“Before your mom embarrasses you?” Kiyoomi smiles when Atsumu drops his forehead down, giving Kiyoomi the perfect place to lay a gentle kiss. “Well, come on then.”
They start their trek down the stairs as Izumi starts up another call, cutting herself short when she catches sight of the pair slipping into the kitchen. Her grin widens as she starts following what seems like routine and Atsumu slots himself in like he never left, clearly knowing exactly where everything is and what Izumi will ask of him.
“Y’ain’t free from this either, Kiyoomi. Anyone part of the family’s gotta chip in.” At what even feels like a comically surprised expression, Izumi laughs, warm and low like her son’s and just as welcoming. “Well, yer Tsumu’s boy, ain’t ya? That makes ya one of us.”
So Kiyoomi takes up the mantel beside Izumi with great hesitance. Though he finds that he thrives under Izumi’s careful instruction, he even catches Atsumu basking in the interactions between the pair a few times while he’s enveloped in his own tasks. When Izumi orders Atsumu to look for something in the gardens, the blonde grumbling about the cold and wondering out loud how something even survives in this temperature, she turns back to Kiyoomi with a more watchful eye.
“Ya know, Kiyoomi, he ain’t ever brought none of his partners home.”
The revelation makes Kiyoomi stop his chopping, “What?”
“Never,” she squints her eyes at him as if measuring whether or not he’s worth honesty. “He’ll talk about ‘em, but none of ‘em ever been so good as to come home with ‘im.”
“Oh.”
It’s the only response he can think of, and he returns to chopping with greater hesitance, the weight of her gaze trained on him while he completes the task. There’s no denying that while Izumi is playful, her hard edge is terrifying—a true double-edged sword making Kiyoomi’s nerves build their steady thrum once more.
But with this revelation, Atsumu’s earlier sentiment—doing this together—seems to strike a new chord. No longer is Kiyoomi alone in the foreign territory of meeting parents, Atsumu is alongside him—a stranger to the introductions and embarassment. Something about that makes Kiyoomi smile, hidden and barely noticeable as he continues to chop away, and the nerves fade away.
“Yer different, Kiyoomi.” When he looks at her, Izumi’s wearing a smile, the calculating look in her eyes much softer. “Thank ya, for treatin’ my boy right. He’s lucky to have ya.”
Is he really? Kiyoomi almost asks when Atsumu trudges back in, cheeks and the tip of his nose pink from the cold, hair a little ruffled from the wind, root vegetables in hand. The sight is so sweet Kiyoomi nearly looses a full affectionate smile, a small sparkle in his eye and a slight smirk settling in instead.
“Freezin’ out there. Yer wicked for makin’ me go out there,” he lays the vegetables before his mother before burrowing into Kiyoomi’s warmth, hands slipping between his sweater and the shirt guarding his skin. “Yer warm, Omi.”
“And you’re making me suffer,” the ice of Atsumu’s hands against his middle makes him shiver but he feels the smile tucked into the corner of his neck, so Kiyoomi makes no move to get away. There’s the heavy weight of Izumi’s gaze on them when Atsumu lingers to watch Kiyoomi’s movements as he slices through more of the vegetables Atsumu’s mother places in front of him.
Halfway through chopping the newest selection from the garden, Izumi calls for her son. “Leave yer boy alone. I need ya over here.”
With a quick kiss on Kiyoomi’s shoulder, Atsumu moves to help his mother grind and mix an assortment of spices. All the while, Kiyoomi’s ears perk at the gossip that pours out of Izumi. The slightest of bad news to the most scandalous stories that gripped the small town over the past few months pour out of her. What makes Kiyoomi have to fight a smile throughout, though, is the way Atsumu listens with all of his care. Each interruption is emphatic and purposeful, asking questions that allow his mother to divulge details she would otherwise hide. The interaction looks so routine that Kiyoomi can’t help but feel like he’s intruding on a tradition.
Until, of course, Izumi is asking Kiyoomi his thoughts on the latest from what he’s heard, only then does he realize that Izumi becomes a worse gossip when Kiyoomi presents his dry, clear-cut opinions. Her grin borders on wicked when they start ridiculing the latest design choice of the neighbor’s garden.
Being alongside the pair—hearing Atsumu’s interjections and Izumi’s vehement critiques, being able to throw his own comments in, and delighting in the laughter that bubbles out—feels like being held in an entirely new way. It ignites that soft spot he felt when looking at the Miya portraits, the barbs a little sharper when he sees the way Izumi beams at Atsumu’s little reactions to her gossip.
Kiyoomi’s family had never really been the type to do things together like this or really even talk like this—so openly judgmental or even playful. Though he and his siblings developed that relationship over the years, it was still a novel feeling to be wrapped in some kind of filial acceptance.
Everything from Izumi’s remarks about Kiyoomi’s cutting words to Atsumu’s roaring laugh at Izumi’s own taunts about the neighbors or Akari-san down the road makes Kiyoomi feel accepted—embraced, really—by the Miyas. While he and Osamu are familiar with one another, and wreak serious havoc in Atsumu’s life together, being accepted by Izumi, their mother, feels special, different. All of the laughter and smiles keep Kiyoomi centered, the previous anxiety of meeting the family dissipating with each sly remark from Izumi.
The comfort of it takes him all the way through prep and into the hour or so as they sit and chat idly awaiting the arrival of Osamu. In the interim, Izumi entertains them with stories of her own antics with his father, including a recent and rather long stint to see how long it would take for him to notice that she kept changing out the shirts he would pick out for work the night before. It’s during this story that the front door opens and Osamu’s voice carries down the hall, Atsumu never missing the opportunity to rib him for being later than him.
Immediately upon seeing Osamu, Izumi breaks into a brilliant grin, getting up as if to envelope him in a warm, tight embrace. That’s what Kiyoomi assumes she’s doing until she reaches for a magazine on the table to curl up and swats Osamu against the head.
“Samu, I thought I told ya to look after these two?”
“Christ, Ma,” he rubs his head, brows digging inward, “I have—what’d ya mean?”
“Y’ain’t doin’ well enough,” she jerks him into a hug then. She tries to muffle her voice, but Kiyoomi still catches the words. “Kiyoomi ain’t gotta family in Osaka. Ya needa look out for him like ya do for Tsumu.”
Osamu’s reply is softer, but Kiyoomi sees the way his arms tighten around her, “Alright, Ma. ‘M sorry.”
“Now ya gotta help me finish dinner. Angel boy over there helped prep,” Osamu’s groan earns him a cutting glance from his mother. “No complainin’. It ain't no one’s fault but yer own that ya decided to pursue cookin’ as a career. Now git in the kitchen an’ help yer poor Ma.”
She winks over her shoulder at Kiyoomi and Atsumu as Osamu lets out a long string of complaints well into the kitchen.
“How ya feelin?” Atsumu’s hand snakes its way to Kiyoomi’s hair, blunt nails scratching at his scalp making Kiyoomi’s eyes flit closed.
“Fine,” he smiles when he feels Atsumu’s lips against his shoulder. “Your mom is easily my favorite Miya.”
The rumble of Atsumu’s chest betrays the actual lack of laughter, “She oughta be.”
Kiyoomi hums and they fall into mutual silence, the soothing scratches lulling Kiyoomi into that state just before sleep while the ambient sounds of the mother and son cooking duo bring a hazy comfort that makes a nap all the more attractive. The pair must drift off together at some point as the call of another man brings Kiyoomi back to consciousness, the heavy head of Atsumu on his shoulder.
In his haze, Kiyoomi hears Izumi’s response to the voice, loving and warm—Atsumu’s father, that must be who’s home. Footsteps fall into the room with them, Kiyoomi’s eyes still lidded, and come to a stop. With Atsumu’s deadweight still on him, Kiyoomi doesn’t move, waiting until the steps resume their path a few moments later.
“Atsu,” Kiyoomi whispers the name, earning a low hum, absent of any real thought. “Atsu, baby, c’mon.” This call comes with a little nudge of his shoulder, the movement displacing Atsumu enough that he blinks his eyes awake.
“Ya just call me ‘baby’?” Of course, that would be the first thing Atsumu would latch onto.
With a roll of his eyes, Kiyoomi disentangles their bodies, “Might have. Or you just hallucinated it in your dream state.”
“I’d know yer voice anywhere, darlin’,” Atsumu wears the cheesiest grin with those sleepy eyes, and it makes Kiyoomi’s heart thump a little harder.
“Get up, sap—I think your dad’s back.”
“Pa?” That has Atsumu shooting up, raising his voice so his father can hear him. “Ya already home? Ain’t even sayin’ hi to yer favorite son?”
“I don’t have favorites,” the same voice that woke Kiyoomi calls back. “And you were sleeping in there, I didn’t want to disturb the two of you.”
With his consciousness back, Kiyoomi notes the distinct lack of an accent in his father’s voice, the apparent dialect difference. The contrast in voice is almost shocking after having spent all day alongside Izumi with her almost incomprehensible speech. When he comes out of the kitchen, though, Kiyoomi feels like he’s looking at an older version of Atsumu. While the twins certainly picked their antics up from their mother, it seems as though they’re the spitting image of their father, the only difference laying in their eyes, voices, and a box of bleach.
“Forgive me,” Kiyoomi finds those stranger’s eyes on him, “I’m Atsumu’s father, Eizo. And you’re Kiyoomi.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Kiyoomi ducks his head in a bow.
As Kiyoomi raises his eyes, Eizo’s eyes are crinkled in a wide smile, “You’re polite like Kita-san, aren’t you?”
“Pa,” Atusmu’s voice rises in that warning way that means someone is too close to embarrassing him.
His father raises his shoulder, shrugging it off, “I’ve said nothing, Atsumu—just making the connection.”
“You have a type?” Kiyoomi lets that teasing lilt out when he shoots a look at Atsumu.
The groan Atsumu lets out has Eizo letting out a low, warm laugh, “I see you have just as much fun teasing him as his mother does.”
“I do,” Kiyoomi smiles, small and almost shy when he looks at Atsumu’s father.
That’s when his father leans in, voice low and eyes sparkling, “He needs that—the humility.”
“Don’t I know.”
His father’s laughter sends Atsumu into another huff berating his father for betraying him in some form or another, Eizo takes it all with a wry smile. Izumi calls for them to help set up the table, Kiyoomi laying dishes that are already done out while Atsumu and Eizo grab the dishes they need. It’s strange, Kiyoomi notes to himself, how easily he can be folded into a family like this.
Izumi’s gentle hands lay on his arms and direct him to the spot beside Atsumu’s and conversation flows so easily. Izumi pesters Eizo for every minute detail of his day, then moves to Osamu. Though she spares Atsumu and Kiyoomi, she does launch into an extensive story about her own day, during which Eizo looks at only her. The couple is incredibly attentive to one another, Kiyoomi notices; Eizo fills her plate with the things he knows she’ll like while she talks, Izumi brushes her hand against his arm in thanks for the act each time without faltering in her tale. The unconscious habit makes Kiyoomi reach for Atsumu’s hand under the table, giving a light squeeze before letting it go.
Eventually, though, Izumi runs out of things to say and Eizo picks up a casual line of questioning directed toward Kiyoomi—pointedly avoiding any questions about his parents, something he’s sure Atsumu warned his parents against. Though his answers sometimes have Izumi and Osamu stifling their laughter while Eizo smiles warmly, particularly when Izumi asks when he started to like Atsumu and he answers with a clear, “I never did,” hand reaching for Atsumu’s under the table with a playful smile.
Kiyoomi does eventually tell them the story about their first real interaction together, the night they’d first gotten dinner together, and, with an ever-growing blush, divulges the moment he knew he was done for at their annual benefit during the height of the season. Though something about the story makes Osamu start to tease Atsumu relentlessly, finishing out dinner with a faux fight between the two as their parents roll their eyes and grab plates to wash up.
When Osamu gets up to help them, sticking his tongue out and smacking Atsumu’s head lightly, Kiyoomi pounces on the opportunity to see why Osamu ribbed him so hard.
“What d’ya mean?” Atsumu avoids the question with the grace of a newborn calf.
The look Kiyoomi sends him must be deadly as Atsumu ducks his head with a laugh. “Don’t avoid the question, Atsumu. Why was he so weird about the benefit?”
“’Cause he knew I had a huge crush on ya then.”
“Now how’d he know that?” Kiyoomi’s brow and smug little smile scream how badly he wants to pull the story out of Atsumu just to humble him.
“Yer the worst,” his victim buries his face into Kiyoomi’s shoulder before pulling them both up to leave the dining room. “I might’ve, allegedly, called him drunk off my ass and ranted for eighteen minutes and thirty-two seconds—yeah, he timed it—'bout how obsessed with ya I was.”
Kiyoomi pauses on the step he’s on. “Eighteen minutes?”
“And thirty-two seconds,” Atsumu sighs as he continues up the stairs. “Maybe a lil longer since he started the timer late.”
“You’re telling me you drunk called your brother to talk about me?”
As the door to their room opens, Atsumu looks over his shoulder, “Well what was I supposed to do? Tell you?”
“No, I think sitting on it for another three months was the perfect decision.” Even with Kiyoomi’s perfectly neutral tone, Atsumu picks up on the tease.
“Oh c’mon,” Atsumu drapes his arms around Kiyoomi’s middle as he gets the items for their night routine in order, “you can’t tell me you didn’t call Motoya to talk about your feelin’s.”
Leaning into the loose embrace, Kiyoomi tucks a smile away, “I did. But I think it was more ranting about how irritating you are.”
“Are? Are? Present tense?”
“Present, future, always tense,” he squeezes the arms around him before continuing through his task.
The teasing follows them easily into the change out of their travel clothes and into pajamas. Izumi and Eizo come to bid them good night as Kiyoomi is halfway through his skincare routine while Osamu hangs around to tease Atsumu for being an old man going to bed at the same time as their parents. Their bickering only ceases when Atsumu begs Kiyoomi to help him with some skincare and Osamu leaves high on his laughter at Atsumu’s sappiness. Though Kiyoomi is probably just as bad considering he still finds himself rubbing product into Atsumu’s skin, gentle smiles settling over both of their faces.
Just as they always do, the pair settle into bed with ease. True to form, Atsumu drifts to sleep in moments when they get comfortable, Kiyoomi following minutes after while he focuses on the steady rise and fall of Atsumu’s chest. Despite the foreign environment, Kiyoomi finds himself calmed by the stability of Atsumu—his ability to simply pass out in moments, the consistent breathing that comes with his rest. It lulls Kiyoomi into a deep, dreamless slumber.
The next morning, Kiyoomi wakes to a strong scent of coffee and an incredibly warm presence.
“Mornin’ baby.”
Muttering a good morning in return, Kiyoomi seeks out the warmth of Atsumu by cuddling in further, wrapping his body around Atsumu’s hips. A hand weaves itself between tangled, sleep-tossed waves, scratching at the scalp and humming.
“Gotta get up, Omi.”
“Don’t wanna,” he tries and fails to burrow further, already having gone as far as he can go. “It’s cold and you’re warm.”
The soft laugh that Kiyoomi earns brings a dopey little smile to his face, curled away from Atsumu. “Babe, if you get up, I can help you warm up.”
“Is that a promise?”
“I don’t make offers if I ain’t gonna keep ‘em.”
With that, Kiyoomi unfurls, watching with sleep-riddled eyes as Atsumu adjusts the pillows so he’ll be able to sit up in bed comfortably. Laying back against those pillows, Kiyoomi narrows his eyes, “Where’s my promised warmth?”
The low chuckle and smile that Atsumu gives him already makes him warm from the inside, but he doesn’t say that as Atsumu leans closer in, barely leaving space between their lips when he mutters, “Someone’s impatient.”
“I like getting what I want,” and still Atsumu refuses to close the gap.
“Oh, ya want me huh?”
It’s near enough to make Kiyoomi surge forward, but he restrains himself, holding out for delayed gratification, “Some days.”
Atsumu’s amused hummed is followed by a slow kiss, lingering hints of mint on his lips. It’s entirely too quick for Kiyoomi’s liking, something he makes evident in his glare when Atsumu pulls away.
“Must be one of those days, then.” The all too smug look on Atsumu’s face is replaced by wide eyes when Kiyoomi grips the front of his shirt to pull him back in. Heated kisses and slips of tongues drift back into a lazy press of lips on lips as the lack of caffeine begins to seep into Kiyoomi’s brain.
“C’mon,” Atsumu fits the mug between Kiyoomi’s hands before leaving him one last kiss, “family’s out gettin’ Gramma but we gotta get ready soon.”
“So who exactly am I meeting today?”
“First will be Ma’s ma—that’s where Osamu and those two went off to this mornin’—and then I think it’s the cousins from my dad’s side stoppin’ in this afternoon.” Even in the bleary state of his brain starting up, Kiyoomi. Remembers Atsumu’s protests about them a few months ago.
“And are these the cousins you don’t like?”
There’s a bit of hesitation in his voice, as if Atsumu isn’t quite sure of his own opinion. “It’s not that I don’t like ‘em, I just- it’s hard to explain without havin’ met ‘em.” A heavy head slumps against Kiyoomi’s shoulder, one hand absently drifting towards Atsumu’s hair. “They’re different from us—from my ma’s side of the family.”
“They weren’t raised out here like you?” Each scratch at Atsumu’s scalp seems to ease whatever strange tension started to rise in him.
“Right, yeah they were raised in the city, like yer family and Pa. Ya’ll see what I mean though. They’re just… different.”
After grumbling about meeting strangers Atsumu barely likes and taking the first sip, Atsumu leaves Kiyoomi be, choosing instead to ask for the sleepyhead’s advice on what to wear for the day. Armed with boyfriend approval, Atsumu makes his way to the bathroom as Kiyoomi works on draining his coffee and catching up on current events sans boyfriend interruptions. Nearly at the bottom of his mug and the article, Kiyoomi finally starts to feel awake.
“Ah, shit,” Atsumu’s irritated huff pulls Kiyoomi’s attention away from the article he’s reading.
“What is it?”
Popping his head out of the bathroom after a distinct thud of something hitting the bottom of the trashcan, Kiyoomi can sense the annoyance in Atsumu’s face, “Ran outta my hair stuff. On day two no less.”
“Mmmm,” Kiyoomi hums around his mouth full of coffee, swallowing as he gestures to his toiletry bag. “No, you didn’t, I brought some.”
The silence drags on for a moment too long before Atsumu steps out from the bathroom.
“What?”
“I packed some,” Kiyoomi draws himself out of bed to search through the bag himself. “You said you were running low last week, so I brought some in case you ran out while we were here,” Kiyoomi grumbles when he pulls out the wrong little tub for the second time, a victorious little huff accompanying the sight of the proper one. When he turns around, he finds Atsumu still in the doorway, mouth partially open and eyes sharp on Kiyoomi in a way he’s never seen. “Quit gawking.”
Atsumu catches the tub Kiyoomi throws without even breaking eye contact.
“Can’t help it,” the corners of Atsumu’s mouth curve in that terribly fond way that makes Kiyoomi’s stomach swirl, “feels like I’m dreamin’.”
Making his way over, Kiyoomi smiles when he cups the side of Atsumu’s face, “That’s because I’m your worst nightmare—now hurry up, I need to do my hair.”
After a bout of laughter and a warm kiss, Atsumu finishes his hair while Kiyoomi spectates, throwing in little sideways remarks here and there just to get a rise out of him. These little moments have slowly grown routine between them—watching the other do their day-to-day tasks while acting as a peanut gallery of sorts. The watching provides them a different level of intimacy, the remarks a shroud of normalcy over the great big fear of being known so wholly.
They watch each other constantly, knowing or unknowing their eyes will seek one another out in a room. This is the case when they come down to the flock of cousins along with Atsumu’s grandmother; when they’re swept in opposite directions, Atsumu looks to make sure Kiyoomi isn’t being overwhelmed by the intensity of his dad’s side of the family; Kiyoomi looks to see the way Atsumu lights up with his grandmother and mother, connecting back to his roots. Protective or tender, each look is purposeful and palpable—Izumi and her mother giggling to one another at the lovestruck looks they send to each other’s turned heads.
Much to Kiyoomi’s triumph, he only manages to stick his foot in his mouth a couple of times, his brutal honesty shaking the cousins when they fail to reconcile his dignified outside and cutting inside. In a conversation with one of the older cousins, Kiyoomi realizes why Atsumu would struggle with this side of the family—straight-laced and prim. They seem to like Kiyoomi at first for his practical attitude until they learn that the practical attitude comes with a scathing and ruthless tongue. In a few those moments, he feels Atsumu’s warmth beside him, a gentle laugh buried into the top of his head.
Dinner that night is a much simpler affair—Izumi working with Eizo to make leftovers seem like a full meal. Hearing their banter and laughter in the kitchen feels so similar, the weight of that same familiarity with Atsumu making him feel almost disjointed. A fragment of his own life reflected in the evident love of another couple feels too daunting to investigate.
Throughout dinner and the brief conversation afterwards, curiosity haunts Kiyoomi—flashes of strange interactions between Atsumu’s cousins and the family feeling too reminiscent of his own family and far too out of place for the Miyas.
The questions comes as they’re on the verge of getting ready to sleep, Kiyoomi already in bed: “How come your cousins are like that with your dad?”
“You mean the ones from his side of the family?” When Kiyoomi nods, Atsumu sighs, climbing in next to him. “They’re always uncomfortable around our family, I guess. Pa’s kinda similar to ya—grew up in a real rich, real traditional sorta family in the city.”
The connection between the lack of dialect connects and Kiyoomi straightens to look at him properly, “Really?”
“Mhm,” when Atsumu holds his arm open to welcome Kiyoomi against his chest, Kiyoomi finds Atsumu’s voice reverberating through his skull, “he and Ma met when Ma went off to art school.”
“I’m sorry, your mother went to art school?”
“The hell have the two of ya been talkin’ ‘bout if ya don’t even know that?” The angle Atsumu looks down from is wholly unattractive, but it makes Kiyoomi smile nonetheless.
“How much of a menace you were as a child.”
“Of course,” there’s laughter in the begrudging tone. “Well yeah she went off to art school. Pa was a businessman in his dad’s company—like up there kinda businessman. He met Ma in her third year, I think? She was twenty and he was twenty-five, that’s all I know. But they say it was like love at first sight.”
“That’s sweet,” Kiyoomi tucks his smile against Atsumu’s chest only to be rewarded with the gentle stroke of fingers down his back. “What does that have to do with the cousins?”
“I’m gettin’ there, ya impatient brat.” The light smack against his shoulder makes Kiyoomi huff a little laugh. “Ma was from a poor family, got into school on scholarship, and—if ya couldn’t tell—was wildly unconventional. His family said right off the bat that they wouldn’t approve the match.”
Even though Kiyoomi is far removed from his father now, he can only imagine the reaction he would have had if he’d ever brought Atsumu home. His father was already reluctant to accept Kiyoomi liking men, adding Atsumu into that mix would have driven him to madness Kiyoomi is sure. Maybe he is more like Eizo than he anticipated.
“Now see he had two older siblings—older like yers, thirteen and fifteen years older. They had their kids or whatever, secured their inheritance, but Pa hadn’t. He chose my ma over all of it—lost his job, the inheritance, everythin’.”
The breath catches in Kiyoomi’s throat, a story so similar to his own it almost makes him flee the room just to look Eizo in the face and see a reflection of himself staring back—someone who understands the pain of being left behind.
“Unlike yer siblin’s though,” Atsumu’s voice almost sounds angry when he continues on, “Pa’s didn’t take too kindly to his marryin’ Ma and cut him off.” And that makes a part of Kiyoomi ache. Though he and his siblings hadn’t been close prior to his excommunication, their reconnection in the aftermath was often the only thing that got him through the devastation of being cut off. To think that Atsumu’s father did that alone makes him shudder.
“So those kids grew up hearin’ all about their crazy aunt and uncle out in Hyogo—a warnin’ not to become like him.” That irritation seems to build until Kiyoomi squeezes Atsumu’s arm in some attempt at comfort, a tight, controlled breathe leaving Atsumu’s nose. “Then Pa’s dad died, and like dominoes his siblin’s followed. Sister died in some terrible wreck with her husband and his brother got cancer a few months later. It was real tragic.”
Kiyoomi’s eyes swing back to Atsumu’s, “That’s awful.”
“I know. But Pa’s a good man and the cousins were in college by then so he reached out to help ‘em however he could and he got reacquainted with the family. His ma was real apologetic—claimed their ill fortune was because they cut him off. Anyway, they still think we’re a little out there and I think they pity Pa a little. What for I couldn’t tell ya.”
“Being disowned is the worst outcome for a traditional family,” Kiyoomi burrows his face back down and mutters the words against his chest—the old ache in his core thrumming to life once more. Those barbs around his soft spot for the Miya family’s love finally making sense. “You’re nothing without them—so they think.”
“I understand that, I think.” His tone is so gentle that the ache feels like less of a burden. “But he’s got a family—he’s got us—and he’s happy, ya know?”
The lines of whether Atsumu is talking about Kiyoomi or his father are so blurred that he can’t tell whether the tears welling up in his eyes are even valid. Still his voice is chocked when he speaks.
“I know.”
Against his will, Atsumu tilts Kiyoomi’s head so his chin is ground to Atsumu’s chest. Errantly he wonders if Atsumu knows how much those eyes comfort him—the warmth and affection they hold making Kiyoomi almost let those pooling tears fall.
“They all love ya, ya know that?”
A little bubble of wet laughter threatens to make the tears drop. “It’s not like it’s hard when they watched you grow up.”
Atsumu’s smile feels just as adoring as ever even as he rolls his eyes, “It’s harder to impress them than ya think. Ma hated Suna for months before he grew on her. Even she was suspicious of Kita and Aran.”
“Is that so?” The genuine curiosity has Atsumu lacing a hand into Kiyoomi’s hair.
“So pretty when yer curious.” And if Kiyoomi could bottle the way Atsumu looks at him, he would hoard it like gold. “But yeah. She don’t really trust many people—‘specially not city folk like yerself. The fact that ya managed to get her to love ya on day one is a feat.”
Hesitation is never a look Kiyoomi likes to bear, but the way his fingers fiddle with the collar of Atsumu’s shirt and his eyes dart away from Atsumu’s sure screams hesitant. “I can’t imagine why she trusts me.”
“‘Cause yer you,” that sure voice makes the tears well up again. The only effective method in keeping them from falling lying in keeping his gaze on the ceiling.
Something in the way Atsumu runs his fingers along Kiyoomi’s back, or maybe in the way he can feel Atsumu’s eyes never stray from his face, maybe even in the fact that he wants that defensive part surrounding his softness for love to dissolve for good, makes Kiyoomi crack open.
“It’s been so long since I’ve had a real family, Atsumu.” The creak in his voice terrifies him to his core. “I mean the Komoris have tried and my siblings have too but it’s not the same,” as the tears finally begin to fall, Kiyoomi buries his head into Atsumu’s chest, “it’s never been the same.”
Atsumu doesn’t say a word—not about the tears dropping onto his shirt, nor the blatant vulnerability they would normally rib each other for—he just lets Kiyoomi cry and runs his fingertips along Kiyoomi’s back.
There’s no way to vocalize what Kiyoomi wants to say. No words for him to explain how devastating it has been to miss the birth of his nieces and nephews, to be barred from celebrating their life with the family. It’s even harder for him to fathom why the support he receives from Motoya’s parents isn’t enough, let alone explain that to Atsumu. Being left behind by his father, because it was truly his father’s decision that wrought this devastation, left a piece of him bruised and hesitant.
Still, Kiyoomi wants to try. For the man who has given so much, Kiyoomi would try anything.
“In all these years,” he keeps his voice low, too concerned about the way it will crack, “I haven’t ever really missed my father but my mother,” Kiyoomi hiccups a laugh, “my mother has been the worst loss of all.”
“Ya wanna tell me about her?” It’s such a simple question, yet it feels monumental. To open himself up so wholly to another person—to air out this wound that he’s kept under wraps for years. But it’s Atsumu. So for the first time, Kiyoomi feels safe enough to let someone look and the stories pour out of him.
About how she would say “I love you” every time she so much as left the room, her impeccable presentation and how she passed that to Kiyoomi, even the stories about her singing to him when he would be sick in bed as a child. The stories keep coming until his tears are dry and he’s laughing more than anything else.
But what gets Kiyoomi, what makes him feel like that ache can be relegated almost into antiquity, is that Atsumu listens. There are only mild interjections to let Kiyoomi know that he’s present, but he doesn’t try to interrupt, doesn’t prod. The method is so wholly un-Atsumu that Kiyoomi knows its intentional, knows it’s to let Kiyoomi feel comfortable in his own vulnerability.
Finally, in a lull of stories, Atsumu’s curiosity gets the better of him.
“Were ya ever angry with her?” The question earns Atsumu a hum for clarification. “About her cuttin’ ya off and all?”
“No, not really.” His hand drifts to play with Atsumu’s sleeve. “I get it sort of—she can’t really go against my father. I’m sure she still loves me.”
The pause before Atsumu speaks next tips Kiyoomi off to the fact that Atsumu is thinking hard. “My dad said somethin’ similar—yer both like that.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Resilient? Assured? Ya just aren’t shaken by things like that the way other people would be.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m completely unshaken.” Half of a wet laugh tumbles out of Kiyoomi’s mouth, eyes still raw from the tears and voice barely recovering. “I just cried into your chest for like an hour.”
The fingers that tangle into his hair are as much reassuring as they are protective—as if Atsumu could protect Kiyoomi from the pain of being abandoned. “Yeah, but that’s like normal, Omi. Most people prolly couldn’t bare bein’ separated from a family they love.”
“Well, I think I have a replacement lined up,” he smiles up at the blonde. The statement makes heat rise on Atsumu’s cheeks, his smile a little more bashful than smug.
“That so?”
“I think so.”
The playful smirk on his face is quickly swept into a fervent kiss from Atsumu. Those lips are still the most treasured thing Kiyoomi gets to call his. Soft and warm and so unbearably Atsumu that it soothes those parts of his heart that ache. Even if that first kiss isn’t a cure (nor the second or third), there’s an overwhelming sense of gratitude at the mere balm that affection provides him. Maybe in the knowledge that he doesn’t have to shoulder those burdens on his own anymore.
It’s that thought that follows him into his dreams—the sanctuary of Atsumu’s companionship letting Kiyoomi feel like he’s finally got a solid foundation to build a life on. Home has always been a feeling for Kiyoomi, not a place, and it’s no shock that his dreams reveal exactly who feels like home.
The next morning Atsumu is there with coffee once more but this time it’s Izumi’s family considerably louder and livelier family that await them downstairs—sounds of yelling and laughter already drifting up by the time Kiyoomi pulls himself out of bed. Introductions happen so quickly Kiyoomi can barely keep track of names. Still, the aunties decide they love him at first glance and spend an upwards of two hours practically interviewing him on everything from his favorite hobby outside of volleyball to the last book he read. His saving grace comes in the form of Atsumu yanking him up and out for a snowball fight with the young children.
Even if the children are snot nosed and grabby during their venture into the snow, Kiyoomi marvels at the way Atsumu entertains them. When one is accused of cheating, Atsumu picks his kid cousin up and heaves them into the snow, sending a flurry of laughter throughout the other children. If he’s not tossing them around or nailing them with snowballs, Atsumu is terrorizing them into laughter by chasing them or swinging them onto his back to parade them around.
The sight of it is so sweet that Kiyoomi can’t help the way he makes Atsumu linger back so he can kiss him in a moment of privacy. Though he’s almost entirely sure the moment wasn’t private since the aunties are crooning over a photo on Eizo’s phone and pointing at the two of them.
While Kiyoomi certainly feels drawn to the Miyas—more accurately, Izumi’s family, the non-Miyas—they are entirely too draining. Each conversation takes more and more from Kiyoomi’s social meter, turning him into more and more of a blunt asshole. There should be no surprise when the aunties love his rudeness and the uncles take to trying to goad him.
Izumi is his savior this time, dragging Kiyoomi to come chat with her mother. Though really the pair just sit together in comfortable silence broken only by an observation from the elder that almost exclusively draws Kiyoomi’s attention to Atsumu. Sitting beside Atsumu’s grandmother is like a brief reprieve before he’s thrown back into the torrent with a call from one of the aunties.
“Kiyoomi,” the voice makes him pause, turning to look at soft smile of his companion for the last hour, “yer doin’ much better than anyone could ever do meetin’ these folks fer the first time. Keep this up and ya’ll find yerself stuck with us.”
For once, Kiyoomi doesn’t hide his smile, “I think I’d like that.”
Another call of his name from Atsumu’s auntie shakes him from the interaction, but he notices that soft spot in him glows—this time without any barbs.
The house eventually empties out, the entire family opting to eat out to conserve food for New Year’s. Being in a restaurant allows Kiyoomi and Atsumu to limit their social interactions so Kiyoomi isn’t entirely drained before the end of the night. Still the aunties try at every turn to get Kiyoomi involved and the children are loud. The large crowd and more socialization than he’s had in months nearly have him snapping when Atsumu so much at nudges him towards the end of the night. Still though, throughout dinner Kiyoomi places bites of his food onto Atsumu’s plate without fuss, lets Atsumu squeeze his thigh in thanks. Doing so catches the eagle eye of Izumi, though, who can hardly contain her warm smile.
Goodbyes that night are punctuated with promises of seeing one another tomorrow—a promise Kiyoomi hasn’t heard in years. Even in his irritated state, the knowledge that Atsumu’s family will all be together tomorrow again as promised makes him feel warm from the inside out. It’s enough to sustain him throughout the long ride home, tuning out the lively conversation between the twins and Izumi.
When they get home, Atsumu and Kiyoomi follow their routine in silence, a mutual understanding that Kiyoomi is at his limit for the day. Still, Kiyoomi wordlessly rubs product into Atsumu’s face without being prompted. Something about that makes Atsumu’s smile glow even brighter than normal.
Falling into bed that night has Kiyoomi crawling as far as he can from Atsumu, a gentle laugh following the action.
“Kiss on the head?”
Despite his desire to get away from everyone and everything, Kiyoomi still nods his head and basks in the warmth that spreads over him when Atsumu presses his lips to the crown of his head.
As he drifts off feeling the shift of Atsumu crawling into bed, an overwhelming sense of gratitude falls over him. Atsumu, a lover of showing his affections, respects Kiyoomi and his boundaries without complaint. Without a singular ounce of protest, Atsumu accepts when Kiyoomi cannot handle voices, cannot handle touch. The realization is invigorating—knowing that he can be true to his own desires without feeling like a burden.
That night, when he lies separate from Atsumu, but still hears that even rise and fall of breath, Kiyoomi dreams of that security, the freedom and comfort of being exactly who he is with a man he so adores.